


Johnlock ABC Drabbles

by misha_collins_butt



Series: ABC Drabbles [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Bottom!Sherlock, Don't @ Me, Drinking, Drunken sex, Emotional Trauma, Established Relationship, Exhibitionism, First Kiss, First Time, Hospitals, John/Sherlock - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, Lingerie, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Suggested bondage, my dramatic ass can't go one second, outside perspective, sherlock/john, without trying to make my readers cry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-10-15 15:06:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 15,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17531039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misha_collins_butt/pseuds/misha_collins_butt
Summary: A series of one shots and short fics based on one word starting with each letter of the English alphabet.First chapter summary: Sherlock is hospitalised after pulling John out of the bonfire at the park.





	1. Ablaze

John inhales deeply. The hospital sheets reek of bleach and death. 

 

He rests his head on his arm which rests on the bed. His other hand blankets heavy over Sherlock's. 

 

Smoke inhalation, the nurse had told him, can leave deadly side effects. You don't have to be directly in the smoke to die of smoke inhalation. It can happen hours, days, weeks after. 

 

At first, John had allowed the talons of dread to pierce his heart and carry him away to his worst nightmares. But it's been days with no improvement, and John is just tired. Being anxious is exhausting. Being in love is exhausting.

 

He hasn't left Sherlock's bedside. Anytime there's a muscle twitch, the smallest of noises, even after so many days of shattered hope, John still expects to look up and see Sherlock waking up to say something snarky and demand that John take him home. But each time, he's disappointed again.

 

John passes the time by making lists in his mind or doing the daily crossword puzzle in the paper. Sometimes he has the nice, young nurse with long dreadlocks and a Monroe piercing on the right side of her lips bring him a book to read to Sherlock, because the older nurse with the harsh black eyes and hooked nose and short, choppy red hair makes a fuss about doing anything for John since 'he's not the patient'. But mostly, he just does this - sits here in this ridiculously uncomfortable hospital chair with his head on his arm and whispers things to Sherlock. Things he isn't brazen enough to admit in Sherlock's consciousness.

 

Even with the detective in a semi-comatose state, it still took some gut-mustering for John to be truthful. The very first thing he admitted was his feelings for Sherlock. It took him three hours to gather the courage to open his mouth and push the words out. He thinks, now, looking back, that he was never scared of admitting it to Sherlock, but that he was terrified of admitting it to himself. Because admitting these feelings to himself means they're real. That's something he's been avoiding for a long time.

 

Today, he's going on about the news broadcasts that blare on repeat the shock and discontent of the nation because some actress has gone missing.

 

John chuckles to himself.

 

"You would probably call it boring. Not a real case," he whispers. His thumb brushes each of Sherlock's knuckles. They're bony and smooth. Cold, as though he's already dead. John has had to remind himself at least thrice that he's not dead. "You could figure out where she is a minute flat, couldn't you?"

 

Behind him, a nurse cracks open the door and peeks in. When he looks back, it's the nice, young nurse. What was her name again? Thalisa, he's pretty sure.

 

"Everything okay in here?" She calls quietly.

 

John just smiles and nods. Not to be rude. He's just so tired.

 

Thalisa smiles back, a sad, piteous smile, then closes the door again with a soft click.

 

John turns back to his companion, now resting his chin on his upturned palm with his elbow bending the thin mattress. He thinks Sherlock will probably leave an imprint of his body in the mattress. It'll be funny.

 

"I miss your voice," John murmurs. A song bird chitters on the window ledge outside. John's thumb brushes Sherlock's knuckles, back and forth, back and forth. The white room blurs to become cotton in John's periphery. The heart monitor carries out its rhythmic blipping. 

 

Finally, laying his head back down, John mumbles sleepily, "Come back to me soon."


	2. Blast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first kiss under the fireworks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgot to mention: a lot of these are from John's perspective. Why? I don't entirely know, don't ask me.

John remembers the first time they kissed. It was like a dream. Partly because of the fireworks, partly because they were both just finishing a night filled with beer and tabletop dancing. 

 

John remembers he was exhausted and just wanted to pass out in his bed, but was burdened with the task of babysitting Sherlock so that he didn't do something irrevocably, marvelously stupid, as the genius often does when he's had one too many.

 

So of course, when Sherlock stumbled up to the roof of 221B Baker Street, John followed like the lovesick puppy that he always has been. And there he was welcomed by an ostensibly sobered Sherlock, who'd, of course, wrapped himself in the comforter from his bed. The beanstalk of a man opened his blanket up to offer a seat to John and John took it.

 

And as the fireworks burst open like shaving cream cans in the sky, strobing their faces in red and orange and purple and green, the two men were closer than they'd ever been, and for any number of inexplicable reasons, John felt content. As though he'd done everything right in his life and that he had no more left to do, because he'd found everything he could possibly want or need.

 

He watched Sherlock's big, pale eyes change colours with the sky and he'd thought in that moment that Sherlock was the most wonderous human he'd ever laid eyes upon and nothing more could make his heart stutter the way it did that late November night.

 

When Sherlock finally turned his head and locked his gaze with John's something peculiar took hold of the shorter man's mind. Something he couldn't control if he tried. Something that made him feather his fingers over Sherlock's shallow cheek. Something, too, that must've been controlling Sherlock. Something magnetic, gravitational, that surged them forward until their lips met just as an explosion echoed through the empty space above. 

 

It's been thirty-seven days since then. Sherlock has kissed him at least thirty-seven more times.

 

And each time, John feels that explosion rattling his very core.


	3. Candles

John pauses entering the flat. Sherlock is home but no lights are on. Still, a gentle, flickering glow shimmers at him from around the wall. 

 

A slow, sad melody floats from the light source to his baffled head. The music envelopes him, tightening his cableknit jumper around his arms where he's got the sleeves rolled up. It squeezes until he remembers how to walk. 

 

Unusual of Sherlock to use candles unless it's an emergency. Even then, John doesn't think he's ever seen Sherlock even refer to candles. The man would customarily prefer to walk around in the dark than to use candles. 

 

But there he stands, towering as ever, violin held gracefully between shoulder and chin, slender fingers teasing the strings. His eyes are closed and eyebrows pulled together and upwards, as though in bereavement. 

 

John chooses not to interrupt in moments such as these, where he seems to be feeling true emotion. An unwise move, that'd be. 

 

Instead, John sneaks around the corner and down the hall to his room. He discards of his jacket and shoes near his door, which he leaves ajar. He candidly admits to enjoying Sherlock's playing. It's like having a radio with no ads between songs but which sometimes pauses to mutter obscenities. 

 

John settles into his bed with his legs crossed and a good book poised in his hands for a reading, but a voice from the door makes the book go flying to the ground and flings John upright in surprise.

 

"You weren't meant to hear that song," Sherlock announces casually. His tone isn't its ordinarily neutral, callous vibrato. It's sheepish, tumbling back into his throat as if to hide the words. It puts John off kilter, creating a momentarily confusing translation from his eardrums to his brain. "Not yet, at least."

 

John stumbles over his words, shaking away the wonderment that's built up in his head.

 

"Uh, I...what?" 

 

"The song. I'm not finished with it yet. I don't want you to hear it until it's done."

 

Furrowed brows and a perpetually bewildered, "Uh...okay?" from John sparks a frown in Sherlock's lips.

 

"It's for you. The song is," Sherlock blinks down at the dark green carpet, pale cheekbones blooming red. "That's why I don't want you to hear it yet."

 

"Oh," John replies simply, still in a state of disorientation. Stupidly, he asks, "Why the candles, if I might ask?"

 

Sherlock smiles almost imperceptibly. Just a twitch that only someone like John would notice. And Sherlock knows that. It's maddening yet charming. John often finds himself torn between irritation and laughter.

 

"Helps me relax," Sherlock answers lightly, then, without another word, swiftly retreats to the sitting room. 

 

The words Sherlock has carved into the air don't settle across John's shoulders until many minutes later, after he's retrieved his book and started the first chapter. The revelation blurs his vision.

 

A song? That Sherlock is writing just for John? 

 

He's long wondered if Sherlock shares the amourous sentiment that John feels toward him, but hasn't ever really gotten an answer. Suppose, though, he's never acquired to actually...well, ask.

 

Is this Sherlock's way of answering the unsought? 

 

A warm feeling nests itself in John's heart.

 

Of course it is. But Sherlock would never say that out loud.


	4. Drip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock fixes the sink

A droplet of water splashes his forehead. Sherlock curses and ducks out from beneath the sink, swiping at his face. 

 

Damn bloody pipes are broken. The faucet's been dripping nonstop for at least two days. It's driving Sherlock to insanity. Well...further to insanity. It's entirely possible he may already be insane, but what does he know? His emotional stability is one thing he's never had to bring into question. Namely, it's not his strong suit. If he's mad, he's mad. Straightforward and done.

 

And currently, he's seething. 

 

The dripping was so incessant he could easily hear it in the shower, even over the blaring torrential water raining down on him. So incessant that he left his shower early and stormed to the kitchen with pants on and nothing more. A minor detail. John shouldn't be home for another few hours, provided the date goes well.

 

Bare-chested, Sherlock sniffs, scrunching his face, as he grabs a wrench from the toolbox to his left. 

 

He leans back and hooks his fingers under the top edge of the cabinet and pulls himself backward to rest beneath the sink once more.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

He whacks his head, hard, when he tries to sit up in shock. He didn't hear anybody come in over that ceaseless dripping.

 

Now, he hears John suck in a breath through his teeth when Sherlock slides out from the cabinet rubbing his forehead. 

 

"Damnit, John, don't you knock?" Sherlock throws the wrench down beside him. 

 

John sinks his eyebrows low and raises his chin away from his neck, letting his eyes examine the ceiling for a moment.

 

Then he remarks, mockingly, "If I'm not mistaken, I live here, too--why...are you not clothed?"

 

Sherlock doesn't answer that. Rarely does, those trivial questions. He pushes himself off the ground to check the faucet. No more leak.

 

He slams the cabinet shut and bends over to replace the wrench in the toolkit. John remains standing patiently in the entryway.

 

"Not going to ask me about the date, then?" 

 

"Don't need to. Obviously it went rather poorly or you wouldn't be standing here like a lost trumpet player."

 

John makes a face at that. 

 

"Did you just call me--"

 

"Sounded much more clever in my head. I'll take it in stride."

 

John pauses. Sherlock need not look to feel the eyes on his body. He smirks to himself. 

 

Oh, John, you clueless man.

 

"Fancy a cuppa?" Sherlock asks in his most delightful tone, which he's sure John, by now, knows full well not to play along with. 

 

"Actually, yes--"

 

"Great! Make it yourself," Sherlock interrupts and starts toward the doorway to go back to his shower. 

 

As he leaves the kitchen and pads toward the hallway, John's eyes never leave him.

 

Sherlock smirks again.

 

He thinks he'll make today's shower a little interesting. 


	5. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John escape from captivity

John hums the Queen's anthem again, rattling his handcuffs against the rusty iron pipe, both sounds of which echo relentlessly back at them from the dank brick walls of the tunnels beneath the streets.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes and the back of his head against the pipe he is handcuffed to, adjacent to John. 

 

Their hands are pulled behind their backs and cuffed together with the chains around the pipes, and their backsides face each other, so Sherlock is helpless to stop the torment of John's incessant off-key tunes.

 

"Would you _please_...stop that," Sherlock demands more than questions. 

 

The humming and rattling stops. Sherlock doesn't thank him.

 

"Sorry," John mutters. Sherlock hears his slacks rustling as he shifts. Sitting on a concrete floor for several hours is not treating the veteran's leg very well. "Helps me to focus."

 

"On bloody what?! Counting the bricks?" 

 

It's quiet for a moment before John responds, "More or less." More silence. Then John asks, "Hey, Sherlock? You think anybody is coming to save us?"

 

Sherlock has heard the question many times before. The answer is almost always the same - either a confident yes, or an equally audacious declaration that they won't need saving. This time, he's not so sure. Not about anything.

 

"No, John," he replies quietly, adjusting his head against the hard pipe. "I don't they are."

 

Another long patch of silence stretches between their bickering. Sherlock concentrates on John's breathing. Something seems off about it, but Sherlock can't put a finger on it. Usually John would be panicking at such a statement.

 

Then, his curiosity is answered when he hears John shift again, a little more than should be possible, and the chains clinking against each other as John's unlatched handcuffs come into view along with John twisting backward to smile and say, "Well, that's too bad. Not sure what I'll do with these."

 

Sherlock cranes his head to give the shorter man a clear view of his flabbergasted expression.

 

"Snagged the keys when he came in to beat me up for singing," John explains in a hushed tone as he undoes Sherlock's own handcuffs.

 

Sherlock simply watches him, pride creeping into his previously irritated eyes.

 

"John, you're a genius," he says, wholeheartedly.

 

Without looking up, John shoots back a cold, short laugh and the words, "Even in the most dangerous situations, you somehow find the nerve to mock me."

 

When Sherlock's hands are free, they come up to John's stubbled cheeks and hazel green eyes lock with blue. 

 

"I mean it," Sherlock murmurs, finding no strength to keep himself from leaning ever closer. "And right now, we should run. But when we get out of here, I'm going to kiss you."

 

John's mouth falls open in shock to say something but Sherlock ignores the incredulous man and rises to his feet, searching for anything that points North. 

 

John joins him in standing just as the metallic squeal and clank of the door at the other end of the chamber rings in their ears. The guard immediately sees them out of their bonds and yells after them.

 

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?!"

 

With only a knowing glance at each other, they take off in the direction they came, Sherlock's jacket flapping behind him and the guard's shouts trailing, "Hey, get back here!"

 

Funny how he thinks they'll listen.

 

Turn after turn, they pant and sprint, until finally John skids to a stop in front of a pithy hallway leading to a dark grey metal door.

 

He calls after Sherlock, who's now been forced to stop in the middle of the open, "Where are you going? Exit's right here!"

 

Sherlock groans, retreats to John's position, and yanks him along in the direction they were originally headed. With some protest, John follows, but still, ridiculously, questions Sherlock's guidance.

 

"That's the door we came in! Why aren't we using it?"

 

"They know we saw every door they used and turn they took," Sherlock explains. "Can't go that way. They'll expect it."

 

Sherlock can physically _hear_  the confusion in John's silence.

 

"B-But they didn't expect us to escape! Why would they have guards posted there?" 

 

Still not catching on.

 

"Never underestimate the enemy, John. You should know this," Sherlock takes a sharp left and John continues to follow without even needing to recover - just an automatic perception for Sherlock's next move. Which is aggravating considering his apparent inability to latch on to the concept of smart criminals. "They didn't expect us to escape, you're right. But they're smarter than that." Another sharp turn. "They would've thought of everything, including that in the unlikely event that we did escape, at least one of us would've thought to go back through where we came in." They come to a cylindrical, cavernous room at the end of a long hallway and stop short. Sherlock turns around to look John in the eyes again. "What they don't expect is that we're always smarter together."

 

John's face fades ochre red. Sherlock smirks.

 

He pivots on his heel, grins maniacally upon seeing the heavy metal door he expected to see, and begins searching for its key, likely hidden somewhere in the room.

 

In the distance, booted footsteps pursue their winding path. John slides his hidden gun out from his shoe and aims it down the long corridor just as a lone guard enters from an offshooting doorway about halfway down.

 

"Uuuh, Sherlock? Whatever you're doing, hurry it up."

 

Sherlock's fingers brush the key taped to the inside of a grate in the wall and he tears it out and holds it up in front of himself. He then slides the key into the doorknob and...

 

"Shit!" He exclaims, jiggling the knob uselessly back and forth. "Corroded by rust."

 

Aprubtly, a gunshot resonates through the chamber and Sherlock whips around to see John holding up the smoking pistol and a lifeless body splayed in a puddle of blood on the ground.

 

"Well..." Sherlock muses without humour. "Good on you, John. Now every single one of them knows EXACTLY WHERE WE ARE."

 

John deigns to say something back but thinks better of it, before lowering his weapon as Sherlock strides over, bends down, snatches the guard's own gun, and checks the magazine.

 

"Well, I didn't say it wasn't a smart move, now did I?" Sherlock quips as he heads back to the door. "Sometimes," he adds in a mumble, "the smartest option is also the one that might kill you." He squints at the key he left in the handle. "Rusted lock...means rusted hinges..."

 

He, yet again, pivots around to face John, both hands up and fisted with only his index finger on one hand pointed to the sky, and the gun aimed upward in the other.

 

"John, I'd like you to hold this gun for me."

 

"Dare I ask why?" John snipes back, taking the gun when Sherlock hands it over. Sherlock only smiles darkly, which prompts John to answer his own question, "Of course not."

 

"I'm going to beak open the door," Sherlock says excitedly when he's turned back to the slab of metal between him and freedom. 

 

John sputters, "What makes you think there aren't guards on the other side that won't assault us the moment we run through?"

 

"Because," Sherlock starts as he backs up. "If there were guards," he takes a running start and hits the door with his shoulder, "they already would have heard that gunshot." He hits it again. He can feel it giving way as the ancient hinges creak against his weight. "Also," he grunts as he rams it a third time. "This is the door that leads to the tube."

 

A fourth and final hit shoves the door open and swinging away from the wall just as the bootsteps carry their owners into the long tunnel behind him.

 

Sherlock's delighted "aha!" is short lived when he steps forward into the doorway and a locomotive immediately whizzes in front of, stopping him dead in his tracks. 

 

"Sherloooock!" John yells over his shoulder and over the noise of the cars rushing by.

 

Sherlock grits his teeth and looks back to see the guards are already over halfway there and closing in quickly. Looks forward again to the train.

 

With hands balancing him in the doorframe, Sherlock shouts back, "John, do you trust me."

 

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but, yes!"

 

"Put down the guns and hold on to me!" Sherlock hears John drop the pistols without question and then feels his arms wrap around his shoulders. "Don't let go!" 

 

As the footfalls gain on them, Sherlock switches his nervous eyes between the train and the curved ceiling above it, where thin, dark, metal pipes containing electrical wiring run along the archway. Then, he takes a leap of faith - literally.

 

To his relief, the bars hold the weight of both him and Watson, but now they're dangling above their next challenge, and with the guards beginning to flood into the chamber they were previously in, Sherlock has mere milliseconds to make his move.

 

He watches the cars beneath him speed by, nearly grazing his feet. Screws his eyes shut. And releases his grip on the pipes.

 

In a flash of utter disbelief and several surprised yelps and concerned muttering, they drop through the open emergency roof exit and land on the floor of the last passenger car.

 

"Ha!" Sherlock exclaims. "If I'm completely honest with you, John, I didn't think that was going to work."

 

"ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY MAD?!" John bellows from his position now beside Sherlock, on his hands and knees. "YOU ALMOST KILLED US!"

 

"Darling, I've done that many times before," he pushes himself to a stand and straightens his jacket collar. "Don't be so surprised."

 

John pants curses like they're saliva, lowering himself to his elbows and covering his head.

 

"Come now, John, we could have died, and we didn't. I'd say that calls for celebration."

 

John shoots him a glare that could dismay even the most harrowing adventurers, but none so bold as Sherlock himself, who simply offers a hand to help up the veteran.

 

Reluctantly, John takes the offer and stands as well, muttering obscenities all the way.

 

"If you ever ask me whether I trust you again, I will beat you with my cane," John shoves his finger in Sherlock's face, but it elicits no reaction except for an amused smile, at which point John, likely unsurprised by the cheeky, unspoken assertion, raises his eyebrows and announces, "You're an arrogant bastard."

 

"You done yet?" Sherlock inquires rather boredly.

 

"Not even close. Why would I be when you just--"

 

Sherlock doesn't wait any longer to pull the other man in and slot their lips together. John initially gasps, but relaxes into the kiss, even going so far as to tangle his fingers in Sherlock's mussed hair. 

 

From the spotty crowd in car around them, some people whoop and whistle at the display. Thankfully others mind themselves.

 

When they part, John questions the action with his eyes and Sherlock smiles again.

 

"Well I did say I would kiss you when we got out, did I not?" 

 

John looks down at Sherlock's jacketed chest, pushes out his lower lip, and nods quickly with eyebrows sewed to his hairline. 

 

"Right, then," he replies, trailing Sherlock to the end of the car. 

 

Sherlock squints up at the stops on the map and finds the light that indicates where they are in the tube. 

 

"Two minutes to the next stop," a kindly old woman wearing a purple pea coat and holding a clutch in her lap mentions to Sherlock. He nods to her gratefully.

 

"We should wait until the one after this stop, to be safe," he says to John as he takes a seat next to the door at the very end of the car. He watches John wander over and pats the seat beside him. "Well, come on then. Fifteen minutes to our stop. Sit down. I'm not carrying you home just because you're stubborn."

 

John abides, sinking into the seat, still muttering. Sherlock wraps his arm around the short man and grins at the older lady across the aisle, who smiles adoringly back.

 

"You're insane, you know," John whispers, eliciting a chuckle from Sherlock. "But I'm stuck with you. Because you're also mine, now."

 

Sherlock laughs jauntily. 

 

He was always John's to begin with. It just took several hours in a cave and nearly being splattered against the walls of the London Underground to admit it.


	6. Fiancée

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wouldn't consider it cheating...considering John chose Sherlock first.

"Have you any idea...how hard I have tried to get over you?" John pushes through gritted teeth. Tears spring to his eyes. Sherlock feels the urge to wipe them away. Like old times. Like before he faked his own death. John's arms are crossed defensively over his chest. He doesn't meet Sherlock's eyes. "It took so--" his voice cracks and he pauses to close his eyes and shake his head. "So long to be able to tuck away the memory of you falling to the ground from that building." John's lip quivers. "I had nightmares about it, Sherlock. Every night for months and months."

 

Sherlock is at a loss for words. For once, he feels something. It's akin to pity, but not quite. He thinks it may be empathy. Guilt. He never feels guilt. Everything he does is for a good reason. But he feels it now, hunched over on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingers crossed together and John standing over him.

 

Guilt is an atrocious feeling. Sherlock despises it. For selfish reasons, he knows, but despises it all the same. Especially in scenarios such as this, when a simple apology means less than the dust beneath their feet. When words won't solve the problem. When he's trapped, forced to face the hurt that he's caused. 

 

But for John Watson, he must feel it. For John Watson, he'll do anything.

 

"Sherlock," John whimpers, a tear escaping the cage of his lashes and prancing down his pinkened cheek. "You have to promise me. You'll never leave again; y-you have to promise me that, Sherlock. Promise."

 

Sherlock lifts his face heavenward, giving John his full attention, opening his borders, releasing his gates, demolishing his walls. Vulnerability. For John.

 

"I promise," he replies, and he means it. Genuinely and fastidiously. "I promise."

 

John nods quickly, sniffling and swiping at his eyes. Sherlock watches him with a caustic intensity. He wants to do it right this time.

 

"There's...there's one other thing," John adds, letting his eyelids fall shut again. Sherlock waits. Gives him space. So prepared to do everything he asks. "I need you...to...kiss me."

 

Sherlock's lips peel away from each other. Kiss John. He hasn't done that in 2 years. It makes him all too excited. The thought of their lips touching again. Something he's been craving since the moment he returned to London. 

 

"What about Mary?" He whispers. He doesn't let the anticipation seep into his voice the way it does into his restless hands. "She's your fiancée."

 

"I'm well aware," John states plainly. His tone makes clear that he doesn't care. "I chose you first, Sherlock. I'll always choose you."

 

With that, Sherlock sits up straight and extends a hand for John to take. When he does, calloused palm meeting Sherlock's soft one, the detective gently tugs John toward him. 

 

Sherlock doesn't hesitate to cup John's cheeks and pull him down. With little ceremony, their lips slide together, familiar and safe. 

 

John lets himself droop into Sherlock's lap, each leg bracketing the tall man's hips. He holds tight to Sherlock, as though his life depends on it, hands fisted in Sherlock's lapels and in his hair.

 

They kiss desperately, needfully, assuredly. Sherlock senses no regrets in John's movements. No reluctance in the way he fastens Sherlock to himself like a pin. No discouragement in his persistent mouth. No penitence in the grind of his hips against Sherlock's. No contrition to speak of. Not that they're doing much speaking at the moment.

 

Sherlock lets John lead, wary to push any further. But John is headstrong, knows what he wants and takes it. 'It' being all of Sherlock's clothing and his own. It all falls to the carpet below, item by item, and centimeter by centimeter, Sherlock is pushed back against the mattress. He puts up no protest. Feels himself hardening at the prospect of being with John in this way again.

 

Slowly but surely, they fall back into their old routine together. It happens as though in a dream. With vignette edges and drifting lips. 

 

Stars form in the corners of Sherlock's vision when John finally slides himself onto the detective's cock. Fits like a favourite glove. The stars morph into shifting colours and floating shapes as John cycles himself up and down, mouth agape and flush to Sherlock's shoulder to suppress the noises that escape his throat. 

 

Blunt nails break skin on Sherlock's back as John rides out his orgasm, panting hot breaths onto Sherlock's sticky skin. And after a moment to recover, John pulls himself off, which triggers Sherlock's trembling climax. 

 

John, ever the tender man that he is, allows Sherlock to cling to him as he comes, every muscle contracting, humid air stealing his breath away. 

 

And even when it's all over, when they're laid out together in a heap of sweaty, tangled limbs, Sherlock remains sure of one thing.

 

That John doesn't regret it one bit.


	7. Grope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is just protecting his boyfriend from pervs

The trolley jostles John's entire body with every bump in the track. He hangs his hand from the bar that runs above the seats to keep himself steady. Doesn't do much.

 

Sherlock stands across the aisle from him with a bored, blank stare as the trees and houses passing by reflect back onto his pale blue eyes. The lightpole of a man is tall enough that he doesn't need to use his arms - he's leaning back, supported only by his head against the bar. Doesn't look quite comfortable to Watson but Holmes has always been an enigmatic jackass, for lack of a more endearing term.

 

No, Sherlock looks especially uncomfortable, actually. Public transport is crowded beyond the limits of even his - admittedly culpable - self control. Particularly, John wouldn't be the least bit surprised if Sherlock decides to shoot more holes in the wall when they get back to the flat. 

 

The trolley is packed with people like sardines. Hardly an easy trip for anyone, much less the likes of the anti-social Sherlock Holmes. 

 

And, suddenly, very much so for John.

 

At first, it seems like it could be an accident. There are lot of other humans around him, someone could easily have brushed his arse with their hand without realising.

 

But then it happens again a second later and this time, the hand stays, and starts squeezing. Before John can protest, the seemingly disembodied hand slips around to his groin.

 

He yelps, and no sooner does he jump away from the groping hand when Sherlock abruptly leaps across the aisle. It takes John a moment to realise Sherlock's fist has collided with a stranger's face, which now is being held protectively by hands - he assumes the same of which were recently touching him - on the floor of the car. 

 

Sherlock shakes his fist out, momentarily gritting his teeth.

 

"Sherlock--"

 

"Well, that doesn't look quite right, does it?" The detective tilts his head at the man on the ground whose nose, now revealed, has been smashed to a pulp and is spurting blood onto the floor. 

 

Passengers murmur and back away from the scene, but life remains as though everything is normal otherwise. 

 

Watson drags Sherlock from the trolley when it stops and walks him down the pavement a ways. 

 

Once they've rounded the corner to the street a block away from theirs, John pushes out his lips and tucks his hands into his pockets nonchalantly.

 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock examining his own hand.

 

"Think I may have sprained something--"

 

"Sherlock, you just punched somebody in the face."

 

A skip of silence, then the reply, "I did, didn't I? Suppose you don't approve, John?"

 

John lets the question sit for a moment. If only to make Sherlock question himself. He doesn't want to be condoning Sherlock's questionable actions, no matter how justified they are. 

 

But, eventually, he gives in and replies, "Rather appreciated, actually. Thank you." John smirks and adds, "Sort of...hot, really."

 

Sherlock grins and loops his fingers with John's inside the pocket of John's coat. 

 

"Maybe I'll start punching people more often--"

 

John scoffs and shoves him away, laughing, "Do not!"

 

The banter follows them through the door of 221B Baker Street. And neither of them could be happier.


	8. Helium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It started as a crack fic but then I realised I hadn't done quite enough smut yet so that's what it turned intoz

Just when he thinks he's gotten a break from that interminable, childish veteran, Sherlock learns yet again that he shouldn't trust the man's promises.

 

"Hey, Sherlock," comes the cartoonishly high pitched voice from just behind his right ear. He flinches and screws his face up in irritation, closing his eyes. "Want to hear a joke?"

 

"Still not funny, John," he states crudely, opening his eyes and working his jaw. The laptop sitting open on the table in front of him has remained untouched for the past hour because of John's obsession with finding ways to annoy Sherlock. 

 

Today, the obsession has risen to a new level - literally. John managed to get his hands on a canister of helium and has been following Sherlock around for hours with little hush, just sucking in helium and saying stupid things, starting with this morning when he woke Sherlock early by letting out a spirited screaming noise right in his ear, causing him to tumble out of the bed and onto the floor.

 

"Aw, come on," John's voice fades lower as his lungs release the gas. "Can't take a little joke, Sherlock?"

 

"Not. Currently," Sherlock grits out. 

 

John's hands come to rest on his shoulders, then slide down over his chest, and the voice, now husky and low, gets closer to his ear, making him shiver.

 

"Not even if I make it fun for you?" John breathes out against Sherlock's skin.

 

The detective gasps sharply at the hand teasing the inside of his hip. Can't resist the lips pressing to his jaw.

 

"You make a tempting argument," Sherlock answers carefully, letting his head sway to the left. "Convince me?"

 

"Hmm," John hums against Sherlock's jaw. His hand finds the stiffness in Sherlock's slacks. "It's too easy to annoy you."

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes back and swats John away.

 

"Why've you always got to ruin it?" Sherlock complains. 

 

John laughs, "Ruin what?!"

 

"You're not an idiot, John."

 

The veteran remains silent for a long moment, and, briefly, Sherlock worries he's scared the man off. But then John climbs into his lap, hooks his arms around Sherlock's neck, and softly presses his lips to the detective's.

 

"I could always ruin something else," John murmurs, eyes closed and lips brushing Sherlock's skin. "If you'd like."

 

Before John can do anything stupid again, Sherlock grabs him forcefully by the waist and yanks him in to shut him up. He feels John's crotch hardening against his belly and swallows the moan that escapes John's throat, pushing his hips up just teasingly. Their tongues meld together, white teeth wedding marks in lips and necks, mouths pausing for only milliseconds at a time to remove shirts and unbutton slacks. And soon, John is bare and Sherlock is haphazardly shoving everything on the table off to the side and replacing it with John and working his way from John's knees, up his thighs, to the moneyshot. 

 

Tauntingly, Sherlock bites red marks in the crook between John's thighs and groin, then sucks John's balls into his mouth, which the doctor absolutely mewls over, until, finally, Sherlock's tongue presses flat against his hole. He just keeps it there like that, studying the way John pushes back against it in mindless ecstasy. 

 

Sherlock weaves their fingers together so he has leverage to pull John closer as he works the hole open with a great enthusiasm he hasn't felt since his first case with John. 

 

The man is pliable and clean-shaven only in the places where he knows Sherlock likes it. He melts at Sherlock's every touch, arches away from the table when Sherlock slips two, then three fingers in. John grips the heavy burgundy curtain, and Sherlock is momentarily concerned that he'll tear it down, but the thought passes quickly because John's babbling nonsense and gyrating his hips against the fingers in his arse and, Sherlock can't entirely tell, but John Hamish Watson appears to be begging for Sherlock to cum inside him.

 

Initially, Sherlock had planned to take his revenge at this point - to annoy the living hell out of John, get back at him for the helium thing, but the veteran looks so impeccable beneath him, strung out and panting incoherent praise, that Sherlock simply can't help himself. He peels his fingers away, making absolutely sure to run them over the bundle of nerves that makes John twitch and gasp, then teases the blunt tip of his cock against the stretched rim. 

 

Slowly, agonisingly, Sherlock glides in, releasing a breath at the warmth that comes to surround him.

 

Per John's request, he's not gentle. Sherlock slams into John's ass over and over, burying his nails in John's thighs. When he cums, he hooks his arms beneath Watson's arched back and lets himself lose control, something he can't do without John to hold onto. When he loses control without John there to catch him, he can never find his way back. 

 

But right now, John is here, and he's clinging to Sherlock for dear life, and he's exhaling his love and graces into their embrace. 

 

"Sherlock, I'm--" John's voice is choked off by his groan as he follows Sherlock in orgasm, dousing them both in sticky white. 

 

And as their breathing calms and vision returns to Sherlock's eyes and the sun brushes pale yellow paint onto the dark walls and floor, Sherlock finds himself able to reel himself in.

 

Though John is childish and silly, he's also a beacon in the dark corners of Sherlock's mind, and he knows one thing's for sure.

 

Annoying as he can be, as long as he's got John Watson, he'll never get lost in the spiral again.


	9. Insolent

He's never had any semblance of personal space, that Sherlock. He's constantly walking in on John at the most inopportune moments. Like when he's getting dressed or examining his nose hairs in the mirror. Embarrassing things like that. 

 

John stopped minding after a few months - got used to the perpetually elementary understanding of alone time that Sherlock seems to have. For all his astonishing abilities, his faults are generally minor, and after a period of time, this one blurred in with the rest of his personality, leaving John with close to no reaction to it. 

 

Until today. No, today was different. Today was terrifying. And possibly even brilliant. 

 

Today, Sherlock was meant to be out of the flat for several hours, allowing John time to himself for the first time in months. He planned to use it wisely. 

 

It included eating a big breakfast, slowly, with newspaper in hand, and a wondrous meditation session, which he's been practising at the suggestion of his therapist. Then, of course, a shower with a happy ending. He hadn't gotten a tug in for many long weeks. He'd thought in several instances of asking Sherlock, but chickened out. 

 

But today? Today was his day of freedom. Or, so he thought.

 

Just as he was approaching his climax, the bathroom door creaked open. Unfortunately, he heard but did not process that sound and before Sherlock, who'd come home much earlier than promised, could say anything, John came with Sherlock's name dragging from his throat. And Sherlock heard.

 

So, now, with a red face and dodgy eyes, John sit across from Sherlock in their chairs in the parlour, and Sherlock simply stares him down with his trademarked Squinty Eyes and the arm bent at the elbow, squishing into the armrest, and hand on his jaw as though deep in thought. And John absolutely, undeniably cannot stand the undivided attention right at this moment. 

 

What will Sherlock say? Will he say anything? Will he yell and scream? Will he be disgusted? Will he ask John to move out or never speak to him again? 

 

The anxieties race laps around John's skull with each pulse of boiling blood. He's hyper aware of his heartbeat thrumming away at his sternum. It makes it feel as though he's got something stuck in his windpipe. 

 

He coughs absently, not even pretending to hide his burning face anymore.

 

_Just_ _say_ _something_ ,  _do_ _something_ , _anything_ _at_ _all!_   _Get_ _it_ _over_ _with!_ _Punch_ _me,_   _berate_ _me!_   _I_ _give_ _up!_ _Enough_ _with_ _the_ _chilly_ _stare!_

 

John clears his throat again, still not meeting Sherlock's eyes, and mutters through gritted teeth, "Just say it, will you?"

 

Sherlock does not comply. Surveys the wreckage of a man, a shell emptied by war and loss, yet still so heavy in his deep blue sadness.

 

John feels the blank stare, sees the thoughts shooting from Sherlock's mop of curls and bouncing off the floor, hears the resting pulse, somehow so close though Sherlock is a metre from him at least. He tastes cotton. Blinks.

 

Abruptly, Sherlock inhales sharply and unfolds his long limbs from the seat. He now stands over John, but it doesn't seem threatening. 

 

"John," Sherlock starts plainly. His words get caught behind his teeth. John is stunned at the nervous tone, which is what pushes him to look up. When their eyes catch each other, Sherlock continues, mumbling, "I want...to do this right. I've never...never really, erm...well, what I'm trying to say is..."

 

The genius lets out a huff and shakes his head at the ground. His curls flop against his scalp. It reminds John of a puppy. His eyes glaze and he forgets to pay attention. As if from above the water he's drowning in, a muffled voice itches his periphery. He blinks rapidly and retrains his attention on Sherlock. 

 

"What?" He breathes.

 

Sherlock swallows hard and, tracing his eyes across the ceiling, repeats himself, "May I take you on a date...?"

 

It initially ends as a statement, then sort of becomes a question. Even Sherlock, himself, seems quite confused with what he's trying to get out. But the message gets across loud and clear. And John has never felt such a rush of adrenaline fueled anxiety in his life. Not even his flashbacks are this torturous or speech-impairing.

 

He tries so hard to answer, he really does, but the only thing his body responds to is the involuntary command to stand up, grab Sherlock's face, and kiss him. Which turns out fine, considering Sherlock's response of immediately tangling his fingers in John's hair and resting his other hand on John's waist. 

 

And, as always, the insolent fool must ruin the moment by pulling away and saying, "I'll take that as a no. Suppose you'll be wanting to move out, now. Otherwise, it's a bit awkward."

 

And, as always, all that John can do is shake his head and respond, "You dildo."


	10. Jogger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deductions and tea

"Why...are doing that--why do you keep looking out there?" John quips from the sofa.

 

Sherlock doesn't answer. Just holds the transparent white curtain back from the window and squints at the sunny sidewalk below the flat. 

 

There's a woman who seems to have taken up a new jogging route. Sherlock's never seen her run by until two weeks ago when she started running by every day at nine in the morning. 

 

Unlikely that she just moved in since she knows the habits of the people on this avenue rather well, easily dodging and weaving between people, which means she's lived somewhere nearby for at least a year and has been this way before in some capacity. And she didn't just start jogging, apparent by her professional form and confidence, as well as the used clothes, which aren't secondhand - the shirt has a name and sports number on the back. Obviously customised, therefore unlikely that anyone else would want to wear a name that isn't their own.

 

She piques Sherlock's interest. She doesn't seem to care much about those around her, caught up in her exercise. Her medium curly hair is always pulled tightly back into a neat bun, indicative of a high-level, formal business occupation. People don't just make their buns neat at random - it's habitual. She doesn't wear makeup, though, which wouldn't be unusual for any other jogger, but she's a creature of habit as aforementioned, so maybe she works in an office where not many people visit her, or somewhere with strict dress code guidelines, likely a school...

 

Teacher? No, higher than that...principal. The hair is a dead giveaway - and obviously a heel wearer.

 

A hand on Sherlock's shoulder shakes him from his reverie.

 

"Sherlock," John says softly, seemingly concerned. "Is there something you need to talk about?"

 

"Sometimes, John, I think you don't pay attention at all," Sherlock muses absently, trailing the woman down the pavement until she disappears behind the edge of the window. He releases the curtain and spins around. John is closer than he expected. It takes him off guard, but he expertly retains his composure. "Have you ever known me to 'talk'?" 

 

John holds his tongue. Sherlock can feel the hesitation. He's obviously trying not to say something rude. 

 

Not like Sherlock doesn't understand the want to do so; he's not exactly the most pleasant person to be around, and he well and good knows it. 

 

Sherlock doesn't apologise, since he doesn't think he needs to, but he does offer to make tea. John half-heartedly agrees. 

 

He goes to the stove and turns it on, checks the kettle to make sure there's enough water. Grabs the cups from the cupboard, smirking at the rabbit head that stares back at him from the bottom shelf. Surprised John hasn't complained about that one yet. Or Ms. Hudson. 

 

He nearly drops the cups when he turns around. John is standing closely behind him again. 

 

"How do you do that?" He demands in exasperation.

 

"Do what?" John arches a brow quizzically.

 

Sherlock shakes his head and floats past him to the island, robe flapping behind him. It's quiet again, save for the flames flickering against the metal of the teapot and Sherlock opening the box of tea leaves.

 

Then: "Sherlock?"

 

He hums a reply. 

 

John's hand lands gently on his arm, pausing everything, even his pulse for a moment. He meets John's gentle eyes.

 

"You've been distant...well, more distant than normal," John explains, irises shimmering. "Although, I suppose you're not exactly normal--"

 

"What is your point, John?"

 

John sighs outwardly, replacing his hand on the island and looking down and off to the side.

 

"Promise me you're okay," he whispers. "Promise me you aren't going to go back to...to the drugs."

 

Sherlock's lips slowly seperate in shock. His heart slams against his ribcage in no particular beat. He's not entirely sure what to say. 

 

Of its own accord, his hand slides itself overtop of John's. The veteran's gaze cuts upward in surprise. 

 

"I promise," Sherlock breathes, holding his stare. He feels John's exhales on his neck. It gives him goosebumps. "It's nothing. Really."

 

For the first time in several years, Sherlock smiles. Small and gentle. Genuine. Just the crook of one corner of his lips upward into his cheek. Enough that John's glance at his mouth lingers. 

 

He turns his attention to their hands. Somehow they've woven together. Sherlock finds they've also gravitated closer, millimetre by millitmetre. His lashes feel heavy over his eyes.

 

Sherlock brings his other hand up to John's jaw, hooking his pinky behind John's ear and his thumb under John's jawbone. Leans in, testing the waters. 

 

Just then, the tea kettle begins screeching again.

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes back in his head and lets his lids fall closed, exhaling with frustration. What wonderful timing nature has.

 

John purses his lips inward and drops his face down again as Sherlock twirls to turn off the stove.

 

Sherlock sprinkles the tea leaves into the strainer balanced atop the first cup and pours the hot water over it. 

 

John's hand slides around his waist and a kiss lands on his cheek.

 

Before Sherlock can react, John smirks, "By the way, never pegged you as someone who appreciates athletic women."

 

Sherlock's eyes go wide and he blushes.

 

That absolute cock knew the whole time.


	11. Karezza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karezza - to withhold from orgasm

"Please," John begs, voice husky and breaths shallow. Sherlock doesn't reply, letting his eyes roam the entirety of John's sweaty body, splayed out before him on the kitchen counter, hands gripping the shelf of a cabinet behind him. He looks delicious. "Please, Sherlock."

 

The way he begs is mouthwatering, so desperate to cum. Right on the edge, barely tilting past it, with Sherlock hanging on to him to make sure he doesn't topple. 

 

He loves teasing John this way, keeping him right at the brim for hours, building him up until he's a panting, incoherent mess.

 

Sherlock slides back into John slowly, teasingly. He watches with unashamed greed as his cock stretches John's hole open. Feels John quiver under his touch. 

 

A tear springs up in the corner of John's eye and tumbles out onto his cheek. He's so out of it, trapped on cloud nine, that he can't even beg with words anymore. John simply digs his nails into the unforgiving wood of the cabinet, legs trembling from exhaustion and pleasure. 

 

Sherlock abruptly juts upward at a sharp angle on the next thrust, slamming into John's prostate. John's eyes bolt open and he keels forward, mouth agape but no sound escaping. Sherlock quite likes the look of that.

 

Over and over, he pushes the head of his dick into John's sensitive nerves. 

 

Until finally, finally, he ceases momentarily, leans in, laps at John's lips gently, then whispers beside his ear, "You can cum now, John. Cum for me."

 

John does, releasing himself with a cry of relief, grinding down against the intrusion still in his entrance. 

 

Sherlock doesn't wait until he's completely done to yank away and manhandle John so his head is hanging over the edge of the counter, facing outward.

 

Then Sherlock does what he does best - he uses John. Uses his face, slipping his cock in and out of John's throat, which flutters warmly around him. Uses his ever-willing toy to satisfy himself. Until he shoots his orgasm deep into John's esophagus with a groan.

 

John's nails leaving graves in his thighs pulls Sherlock slowly out of his bliss. 

 

He helps John up into a proper position, hooks his arm around John's waist, and kisses him slowly, passionately, deeply. John sighs wistfully into Sherlock's mouth.

 

When Sherlock pulls away, he pushes John's sweat-matted hair away from his forehead and smirks.

 

"Have I ever told you," he begins, pauses to leave a gentle kiss on John's cheek, "how incredibly beautiful I find you?"

 

John grins and shakes his head.

 

Replies simply, turning Sherlock's heart to mush, "All the time, Sherlock. All the time."


	12. Lutestring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lutestring  
> [loot-strING]  
> Noun  
>  -a glossy silk fabric

John's just settled into bed with a book when there's a nearly imperceptible knock at his open door. 

 

Irritated at the interruption, he blinks up, but finds something that quickly eases his annoyance. 

 

In the doorway, Sherlock stands sheepishly, eyes drawn like blinds, cheeks like blooming roses, hands tucked away behind his back. And wearing nothing but a silky set of lingerie, pastel yellow and shiny. Lace panties, a sheer, flowing fabric attached to the breast panels on top, strapless. 

 

He looks glorious. If John believed in heaven, he would swear Sherlock appears to be all of an angel in this moment.

 

"Is it okay?" Sherlock mumbles, blush still roaring bright. 

 

For once, John finds himself genuinely speechless instead of just holding his tongue for the sake of sparing himself Sherlock's snide remarks. 

 

His mouth hangs open, breaths coming slow, book abandoned beside him. He sits up on the edge of his bed and beckons Sherlock to him.

 

When the tall, spindly man reaches him, John takes his hand with one of his own and uses the other to ghost over the glossy fabrics, followed by his eyes that are filled with awe.

 

Sherlock watches him carefully, gauging the reaction. When his eyes flicker up to meet Sherlock's gaze, the blush subsides and is replaced by darkening eyes and budding lust.

 

"You're brilliant," John breathes, eyes switching between Sherlock's in wonderment bordering on worship. 

 

"Will this do?" Sherlock murmurs back, lacing his fingers with John's.

 

Quietly, John replies with his own question, "What do you want?"

 

Sherlock's eyes drop unapologetically to John's lips, and they stay there as Sherlock purrs his response, "Fuck me."

 

John nods plainly and tugs the other man down to kiss him with fervour. 

 

The moon reflects off Sherlock's attire as their tongues dance and their wandering hands grip warm skin.

 

And the moon looks away, smirking.


	13. Magniloquent

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magniloquent  
> [Mag-nillo-kwent]  
> Adjective  
>  -using high-flown or bombastic language; to speak using unnecessarily lofty words

He's fed up. 

 

Sherlock is a pompous jackass. As if nobody else in the world could possibly understand his thought process. Using long words that could easily be replaced with simple ones. 

 

Annoyed is an understatement. 

 

No, John is far more than 'annoyed'. He's fuming. Or, as Sherlock might say, 'beleaguered'. And deep down, he knows it's a silly peeve to have, a petty row to pick. But, for fuck's sake, can't he speak like a normal human for once?

 

John confronts him in the kitchen, stepping directly in his path as he rants about the importance of keeping secrets. 

 

"Do you EVER...SHUT UP?!" John exclaims, poking Sherlock's sternum threateningly. "You're pretentious, you know that?" He chuckles bitterly to himself, "What am I saying, of course you know that. Because _you_  know everything." John throws his hands in the air emphatically, continuing, "The great Sherlock Holmes, genius of the bloody fucking century!"

 

Sherlock watches him blankly, thinly veiling a cocked brow. It only frustrates him further.

 

"You finished ye--"

 

"No! No I am not! Not. Even. Close, Sherlock!" John advances on him again, accusatory finger pointed at his chest. "You are the most PRETENTIOUS human being I have EVER had the displeasure of knowing! Sometimes, I don't know if you can even be considered human!" John pivots to stalk away, breathing raggedly. He swivels on his heel again at the threshold of the kitchen and parlour, holding up his finger, continuing, "AND ANOTHER THING--"

 

He's shut up by Sherlock sliding his hands up into his hair and slotting their lips together. 

 

John makes a surprised noise, barely muffled by Sherlock's mouth, but rapidly melts beneath Sherlock's touch, letting the beanstalk of a man work his lips open.

 

When, finally, they pull apart, John furrows his brow and pushes his lips out.

 

"What, uh...what was that for?"

 

Sherlock seems mildly confused, himself, but answers, "I wanted you to be quiet."

 

John shrugs and makes a concurring face. 

 

"Fair enough," he responds and watches Sherlock's lips grow into a crooked smile.

 

Shaking his head, Sherlock echoes John, "Do you ever shut up?"

 

Why should he? 

 

Now, he has reason not to.


	14. Novalia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Novalia  
> [no-valya]  
> plural noun  
> -lands newly reclaimed for improvement or agriculture

Sherlock traces the tractor's path through the plains with his eyes. He's warm and cosy, curled up on the window sill of the living room, examining their new property through the glass. Everything is still, serene. Ethereal. The bottom hems of the diaphanous lace curtains flutter about at Sherlock's side, being played with by the wind flowing in through the open top of the window.

 

All is quiet, yet harmonious. 

 

He's never felt quite so at peace as he does now. Right now, sitting in this beautiful ranch home in the barren, lush countryside of Glengarriff, Ireland, with the knowledge that his husband, John Watson, is in the other room with light yellow paint marking his forearms and a paint roller to the walls. 

 

Getting married was unplanned enough - they only told three people of the plans. Ms. Hudson, Molly Hooper, and Greg Lestrade. Then they eloped. 

 

But on top of that, they spontaneously decided to make a big change. Well, technically they discussed it, but not at length. 

 

Mostly, John just wanted to start fresh, new town, new people, new language, new home. He felt it wasn't a good idea to go into such a serious relationship carrying such heavy baggage. Their shared past is less than desirable. There were too many mistakes, too much betrayal and tension. They had to let go of that. Of all of it. Begin anew. And Sherlock fully agreed. 

 

So, like the acres of farmland surrounding their new home, they culled the traumas of their past, and planted new seeds, better ones. The kind that leave one feeling loved and fulfilled. A crop that doesn't hurt, doesn't scratch or draw blood when the harvest season finds them in rough times, but instead that caresses each imperfect corner of their souls and that whispers gentle prayers of hope as they lay down to sleep.

 

Like the sun with the wildflowers, they let themselves bloom, let themselves cherish, thrive, in the freedom of an open field. Not even the strongest wind can sway them, now. 

 

Sherlock even gave up detective work, instead settling into a safe, well-paying position as a psychologist. His inherently impartial nature makes it easy to remain professional, and his expansive knowledge of the human psyche keeps him trustworthy. It's a comfortable job, one that he genuinely can't say he dislikes, however much he may find himself daydreaming of chasing the game, side by side with John. He'll never feel that same rush with anything else, but he's okay with it. For this, for John, for their new life, he's okay with it, truly.

 

As for John? He took a job as a paediatric nurse. Sherlock thinks it's giving the veteran baby fever. Though, he'd be lying if he said he minded the thought of having children with John. He thinks, eventually, he'd like that life. Maybe they'll even talk about it once everything here is unpacked and settled down. 

 

They're both so unbelievably content. Sherlock never wants to be rid of this feeling.

 

And, though he'll miss his cosy flat at 221B Baker Street, with its bullet riddled walls and view over the avenue below and Mrs. Hudson humming as she vacuums and Molly Hooper with her wide and curious eyes and Greg's clueless glances and everything he ever built his life on back in London, Sherlock knows one thing is absolutely undeniable.

 

He wouldn't go back even if he wanted to.


	15. Omnify

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omnify  
> [om-nih-fie]  
> Verb  
> -to enlarge a relatively small issue; to make universal

Sherlock absolutely cannot think with that man's incessant pacing. It's been hours of this. Pacing and pacing and muttering and pacing and ranting. All because Sherlock said he didn't want a cigarette.

 

It started this morning, when Sherlock was sitting at his desk, spacing out and squinting through the window at the buildings across the way. John notified him that Sherlock was fidgeting - the pen clicking, leg bouncing type of fidgeting. He'll admit he's been a bit on edge since their night of drunken stumbling pub to pub. The alcohol gave him a taste of the highs he used to get with drugs, and it scared him to be taunted like that.

 

So John told Sherlock he wouldn't be angry if the detective went out for a smoke and when Sherlock declined, John sort of...lost it. Started going off about how Sherlock is always hiding something, always lying, doesn't have to pretend to just protect John, etcetera, etcetera. 

 

Of course, Sherlock took alarm at this immense overreaction. It's so unlike John to explode with anger without any physical prompting. He usually makes a tight-lipped face and holds his tongue. Sherlock knows the true edge of the veterans wit. Sometimes it goes too far, by any normal social standards. This was out of character. 

 

So initially, yes, Sherlock was shocked and concerned, though he'd never let it show. 

 

But now, after three hours of this droning and stepping and complaining? Well, Sherlock hasn't exactly gotten much done. He's sick of it.

 

From his supine position on the sofa with hands templed at his chest, he swiftly sits up, stands, and steps over the glass coffee table to plant himself directly in John's path. The doctor doesn't notice a single change and slams right into Sherlock's side, then proceeds to stumble back with wide eyes as though he's got any right to be offended. 

 

"What the hell, Sherlock?!"

 

"Yes, what the hell, indeed, John," Sherlock cuts back sharply. "Why are you acting like this, what's wrong with you?"

 

Not the most eloquent way to phrase it, he knows. But it's his nature. If he could change it, he can't say he would, at least not for the general population. But maybe, at will, just for John. 

 

"YOU!" John exclaims. And though it contextually makes no sense based on the questions Sherlock asked, he still understands the point. John sighs and collapses into his chair facing out the window. He concedes, "Sherlock, I have to admit something. And it's not easy. Never easy."

 

Intrigued, Sherlock sinks into his own chair and patiently waits for John to continue, folding his hands in his lap.

 

Sherlock takes stock of the fright in John's creased forehead, and how he won't meet Sherlock's eyes. It's something John's embarrassed or ashamed of. But also something he secretly hopes that Sherlock will reassure him of. 

 

"Sherlock, I..." John searches for words in his empty palms, coming up blank. The way his chest moves indicates shallow breathing patterns, consistent with anxiety. Sherlock shakes the thoughts from his head. He's got to stop making observations and start being fully immersed in the emotional situation. Even if only because John deserves care and loyalty. "Sherlock...I've been thinking a lot lately. About...about you--us, about us. About my feelings, the time we've spent together, the way...the way you look at me sometimes..." Sherlock's stomach twists into irreparable spirals of fear. Is John saying what he thinks John is saying? If so, why now? John continues, "Sherlock, I'm so confused. You're...a pain the ass but....somehow, for whatever reason...I think I'm in love you."

 

There it is. Those words that Sherlock was dreading. Not because he didn't want to hear them, no no no no no. It's because he hasn't the foggiest what to do next. What comes after a confession like that? What does he say? Does he say nothing and instead do something? What's the right way to react? No one has ever confessed their love to him before, which is not surprising to him in the slightest, considering his reputation. But, of the nearly eight billion people on this planet, it had to be John. Of course it had to be John. Why did it have to be John? 

 

With literally anyone else, Sherlock would know immediately how to turn it off, how to nudge that thought out of their brain, how to nip the problem in the bud. But John...is John. And Sherlock...can't deny, even to himself, that he feels the same way. 

 

"Well?" John's voice rings in his ear like an announcement on a loudspeaker. It flings Sherlock back to the present. "Say something, at least. Anything, in fact. Just say...anything. Anything at all."

 

He feels like he might black out. He tries and fails to catch his breath, to save face. He can tell he's melting into a mess of shock and confusion. 

 

"Right. Well," John whispers hoarsely, clears his throat, and stands. "I should go."

 

Sherlock won't have that. He won't leave this unresolved. Won't leave these words unsaid. Of course, he's got to find the strength to say them. For now, all he can do is grab John's arm and stand up as well. 

 

John only gets a second to glance back it him in surprise before Sherlock is yanking him in and their lips crash together like cymbals in a one-instrument orchestra. Sherlock refuses to waste the time it must've taken for John to work up the nerve for this. And he refuses to leave the answers blank.

 

They lose track of time, of space, which way is up and which is down, of the colours and the world around them. The seasons all exist simultaneously and don't exist at all. The oxygen isn't the air they breathe, but the words they've left to the ashes that fill their lungs now. All other things cease to exist, sacrifice themselves so that this moment can live forever.

 

And when, finally, they come up for air, Sherlock's eyes sparkle back at John's flushed face.

 

With no more excuses left, Sherlock gasps, "I love you, too."


	16. Poland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say:  
> What happens in Poland stays in Poland....er...whatever the phrase is.

They've agreed never to tell anybody. Not a soul, not even family. _Especially_  not family, actually. If Sherlock told Mycroft, he'd never hear the end of it and, truthfully, neither would John. 

 

They didn't make clear whether it can happen again, which has set John on edge. He'd be flat out lying if he said he _didn't_  want it to happen again. It felt...right. But how can they talk about that when they've agreed never to talk about it? This might be tougher than they expected.

 

If only they'd stayed out of that liquor cabinet at that cosy little cottage in Poland. They were meant to be there for work, after all. But John had been having a rough couple of weeks and Sherlock, being the childish prick that he is, promised he knew how to remedy that. He wasn't wrong. John's found himself feeling much better. 

 

But, still, something chews at the back of his mind. He's got himself in his own head about it. He can't concentrate. Can't stop remembering the way Sherlock's lips felt brushing his neck, his collarbone. The way it felt to slide his fingers into Sherlock, the way that Sherlock tasted. The look on Sherlock's face as he sunk down onto John's throbbing cock. And when their eyes met and Sherlock paused, just for a second, just kiss John ever so gently, to lap at his lips with such a careful touch. 

 

John can't help but think that...maybe it was more. More than just mindless, drunken fucking. More than just a wild night of sex between platonic friends. More than Sherlock would ever admit. And it's absolutely wrecking him not to be able to ask.

 

Apparently, Sherlock takes notice.

 

"Just ask already," Sherlock murmurs, eyes not leaving the test results he's reading, tapping his pencil against his head. 

 

Across from him, John looks up in mild surprise.

 

Stupidly, he starts to ask, "How did you--"

 

"You're bouncing your leg."

 

John sighs and curses his body for giving him away. He's yet to master the art of control the way Sherlock has. And if Sherlock has been nervous, he hasn't shown a single damn sign. 

 

"You know I wouldn't ask if I had the choice," John tries preface the question. He knows he doesn't need to, because Sherlock already understands that full well. It just makes himself feel better. The tapping on Sherlock's skull is inexplicably not muffled by his mop of unruly hair. It drives John to snatch the pencil away and set it down on the table, which also serves to get Sherlock to look him in the eyes. "It was more than just sex, wasn't it? Tell me, tell me it was."

 

Apparently that's not the question Sherlock was expecting. His eyes blow up like balloons and his back turns iron rod straight. The detective breathes out shakily, glimpsing down at his unoccupied hands, obviously looking for an escape route. He doesn't have one. He wasn't prepared for this. Not even his quick intellect can get him out of it this time.

 

"J-John, I..." Sherlock breathes out a trembling, one syllable laugh. It sounds hollow and terrified. He exhales loudly again, pressing the heel of his palm into his forehead and closing his eyes. "You can't just...I mean...fuck. What the hell, John?"

 

"Oh, really? What the hell, me?!" John chortles, glances around for some semblance of sense. "What the hell, _you_ , Sherlock. You didn't even...ERGH! You clarified nothing and acted like I didn't see the way you looked at me. And, for fuck's sake, I'm not stupid, Sherlock! I have eyes, I can see when people look at me that way. I can see when _you_ look at me that way."

 

"John, please," Sherlock whispers, but John doesn't hear the desperation in his voice. 

 

"I deserve an answer, Sherlock. I deserve to know."

 

"John," Sherlock begs, and John finally recognises the tremble in his tone. "I...I can't..." Sherlock swallows hard, and pushes his fingers into his closed eyes. The sight sends a pang of guilt through John's chest. "I've never f-felt...you-you're different, John."

 

Soundlessly, John rises from his chair and rounds the table. He scoots onto the edge, facing Sherlock, and gently takes the detective's hands away from his face.

 

"So help me understand," he mumbles, warmly threading their fingers together. "There's nothing you can say at this point that could scare me away. Chances are, I feel the same."

 

Sherlock's eyes remain plastered to the table but he nods. Gulps air.

 

"You're right," Sherlock confesses, glancing at their hands woven together. "About...everything. I didn't think you were aware enough at the time to notice, but, as always, I seem to have underestimated your talents. And overestimated my ability to hide myself." Sherlock finally locks his gaze with John's. It shoots a familiar tingle up John's spine. "I've had...more-than-physical feelings for you for a long time. But I promise, I didn't mean for them to come out like that. I'd never take advantage--"

 

"I know, Sherlock. It's okay. I know," John reassures him. "Would you quit looking away, please?" 

 

Sherlock complies, but his fingers still tap away nervously at his thigh. John ghosts his hand over Sherlock's cheek. He's figured it out. He needs to say it first. Or Sherlock never will.

 

John leans down, closer and closer, until his lips are just barely touching Sherlock's.

 

And there, he admits it, with strength and finality, "I'm in love with you, Sherlock Holmes."

 

Sherlock's free hand buries itself in John's hair and pulls him in the last millimetre, effectively crushing their lips together. And this time, without the fog of lemon Krupnik to soothe the inhibitions, it feels more surreal, more frightening, more tangible, like at any moment, he could pull away and Sherlock would be fuming and then he'd disappear. 

 

But that doesn't happen. Sherlock isn't angry and he doesn't disappear, and, in fact, he seems aglow with joy, the rarest of grins gracing his teeth. 

 

"I...yes, that--same...erm," Sherlock's cheeks bloom radiant red as he scrabbles for words, but John doesn't need them anymore.

 

No, he understands just fine. And even though nothing will be the same ever again, even though this is an astronomical shift in status, even though everything's happened so fast, even though he can't seem to make sense of any of it, John knows he'll always be able to grasp onto one thing that's for sure.

 

They'll always have Poland.


	17. Quinsell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinsell - a horse's reins

"Joooohhhn," Sherlock whines with exasperation. His lips are pouted like a grumpy child, and he looks all of five years old, even with his ridiculous height added to by the horse he's sitting atop. The same horse he's struggling to control. Internally, John chuckles, but he hides the smirk. "This is ludicrous. Is it really necessary for me to learn this?"

 

"Oh, don't tell me this is like the solar system," John chides, taking the lead rope that dangles at the side of the horse. He runs his hands over her steep black neck and she chuffs gratefully at him. Even she knows Sherlock hasn't a clue what he's doing. "And, before you try to be snide, yes, this is important. You will not be the only guest not riding down the beach during the wave off at Molly's wedding."

 

"The entire wedding is...capricious and impractical," Sherlock replies through gritted teeth, letting John walk Allania around the track for him. 

 

"Yes, it is," John agrees, but he pointedly glares at his partner and adds, "And we're still going, because we love her and it's Molly and I am absolutely not missing another wedding because my absolute donkey of a boyfriend refuses to learn new things unless they benefit himself or me."

 

He looks away but still feels Sherlock roll his eyes and set his jaw.

 

They reach the start of the track once more and John goes over the things Sherlock missed, and reminds him that if he does this, John will let him have his mobile back. 

 

Sherlock sighs with irritation, but concedes and ends up getting it almost perfect this time. The little fuck has been holding out just to annoy John. 

 

He only rolls his eyes and removes Sherlock's mobile from his back pocket, ignoring the other man's flippant attitude. 

 

"Knew you'd come around, babe," John sneers as Sherlock hops off Allania and leads her back to the platform. 

 

Sherlock blatantly disregards the remark and leaves a swift peck on John's cheek as he snatches his phone back. 

 

"Thanks, _babe_ ," Sherlock goes along with John's playful mocking. 

 

And in some deep cavern inside Sherlock's heart, John thinks it's not really joking. 

 

"By the way," Sherlock calls over his shoulder as he strides away, the pretentious twat that he is. "We should consider using those reins for something else."

 

John's face turns bright red. Allania's caretaker snorts from her position at the horse's side. 

 

He's such a bloody fucking prick. And John loves him all the same.


	18. Repeat

From the parlour, Sherlock growls in frustration. John doesn't pay much mind to it, tea in one hand, newspaper in the other, sitting in his robe at the dimly lit dining table after a shower.

 

The detective has been struggling all day with this new song. He's obviously trying to compose and can't seem to get his hands to cooperate with the notes being slung around in his moppy head. 

 

John can't blame him, really. It's been an especially slow month. People don't like to commit big crimes in the dead of January in England. Insufficient weather conditions. Hell, John nearly slipped and cracked his skull open on the sidewalk today just trying to get back from the postal station. There's no criminal stupid enough to brave those conditions just for a small stunt, or even for a bigger one. 

 

So, no, John has no problem listening to the same melody all day, the same striking of strings and irritated muttering. But he does worry; it's important that Sherlock doesn't get bored, that he keeps busy, or he's inevitably going to do something transcendently idiotic, and quite frankly, John does not want to be the one to have to clean up a mess like that again.

 

He decides to approach the situation gently, with intent, instead of going in, guns blazing, trying to 'motivate' Sherlock with some fanciful speech. John quietly rises from his spot in the kitchen and goes and leans against the door frame at the threshold to the parlour, arms crossed over his chest, watching his lover pinch the bridge of his nose.

 

Sherlock, of course, in his perpetually one-track state of mind, doesn't notice John, and he continues to restart the song from the beginning. He shortly comes to the middle again and his fingers stumble over the chords. A grumble of anger comes barreling out from deep inside his chest and he flings the composition papers off the stand. They go flittering through the air, slowly bouncing side to side, downward to the carpet in a serene flurry, and behind them, Sherlock presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

 

John's lips tighten into a thin line and he pushes up from where he's leaning. He cuts through the papers still making their way to the floor, silently approaching the beast that to anyone else would appear aggressive and wild. But John knows different. John knows secretly that Sherlock is tame and even calm most of the time. Some things just get him excited or upset. He's easy to bring back down, though, if he gets too fired up.

 

Wordlessly, John slips his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulls him close, gently tugging hands away from eyes. And knowingly, John traces his fingers down Sherlock's cheek, across his jaw, as the taller man relaxes into his arms.

 

The veteran pulls Sherlock down by the neck and connects their lips with a firm, reassuring implication. A touch that says, 'it will be okay.'

 

They kiss slow and languid, like when they wake up together on a sunny morning and the light filters into the dusty room through the sheer curtains and everything is sort of paused. 

 

When they finally pull back, Sherlock looks relieved, subtle smile tilting the corner of his lips.

 

They don't need to exchange words in moments like this, when everything can be conveyed through eyes and hands and mouths and skin. Nothing need be said for John to remind Sherlock, to ground him. 

 

That's okay.

 

When Sherlock's music permeates the air, there's not much to be said, anyway.


	19. Still

Even the dust hanging in the dimly lighted air bursting through the windows pauses in its path. The earth's pulsing heart comes to a screeching halt. The clouds hold their breath. 

 

Nothing has ever been so still as in this moment. Not even just before the Universe was born. Not even when the world was empty, just a superheated ball of errant rock.  No, not even far off from now, when the existence of humans will be a myth from a million years back, will anything ever be as still as right now. Right now, in their parlour, within their shared flat, where Sherlock is being kissed softly by his best friend. 

 

Everything has frozen around them, it seems. Sherlock feels his breaths come in slow, syrupy circles, feels the scratchy fibres of John's outer jacket against his fingers, feels John's rough, military-trained hands, somehow so gentle still, cupping his jaw. 

 

Sherlock's had several first kisses in his lifetime, but none ever like this. None ever so shockingly simple and right and comfortable. None ever so familiar and languid and breathtaking. 

 

Oh, he's felt sparks before, but he's never felt a first kiss so normal, as if it's part of his daily schedule.

 

Normal, yet every one of his muscles is set ablaze with the sensation of need. 

 

And John? Well, having the veteran in Sherlock's arms feels more than right. Feels almost overdue. Feels exhilarating as the sky opening up above them and sending them flying through the blue day. 

 

When they finally pull away, everything takes a deep breath in.


	20. Tank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Public sex is good sex

Giggling, they stumble into the jail cell, entirely unconcerned with the fact that Lestrade will likely be furious in the morning. They're both too drunk to think of it, anyway.

 

No, right now, they'd like to get back to where they were before they were so rudely interrupted by a security guard for being a 'public disturbance'. How laughable. Since when is kissing in a dance club considered a 'public disturbance'? 

 

Okay, admittedly, it may have been more than kissing. Sherlock may or may not have pulled John into his lap and started grinding against his ass, and Sherlock's hand, meanwhile, may or may not have been rubbing John through his tented jeans. 

 

Which is why, currently, Sherlock is holding John up against a white brick wall in a drunk tank at the local police station, with his tongue down John's throat and his dick aching in his slacks. And why, though the male gaurd sitting at the desk is watching them intently, Sherlock and John undress haphazardly and slobber all over each other.

 

With John already loose from an earlier...erm, bedroom row...it's easy for Sherlock to slide into him after John's salivated all over his cock. And quite easy, despite his state inebriation, to let John cling to him, and for Sherlock to fuck him senseless against the wall. 

 

Each thrust sends a tiny, mindless exhale out of John's body, in tune with Sherlock's own rapid breathing. And maybe it's how drunk he is, but when he looks off to his left at the officer watching them, he swears he sees the man at the desk touching himself to their dirty doings.

 

Not like Sherlock minds. He's always had a thing for being watched in this way. For being desired but not touched. It makes him feel powerful. Just like when John lets him do this - hold him to the wall with a hand around John's throat and Sherlock roughly burying himself deep inside the veteran. 

 

Suddenly, Sherlock finds a heat pooling in the bottom of his belly, feels the pressure against the base of his dick, and his mouth slowly opens as his eyes roll back and close and he cums inside his mate with a primal growl. Without removing John from the skewer that is Sherlock's member, the detective latches his teeth onto John's jaw and begins stroking the man possessively.

 

Pornography-worthy cries of pleasure escape John's throat as he nears his climax, and just before he's about to cum as well, Sherlock locks eyes with the officer at the desk, who is now fully, dick-out-of-his-pants-and-in-his-hand, jacking off to the sight of Sherlock asserting such dominance. 

 

Sherlock whispers to John that they have a watcher, which elicits an enthusiastic moan from the shorter man as he sprays white ropes across Sherlock's chest. The gaurd cums at the same time without a sound, mouth hanging agape and hooded eyes glued to John and Sherlock.

 

To anyone else possibly watching, it would be quite the sight.

 

And again, Sherlock and John are far too drunk to care that now they've got yet another problem - no change of clothes.

 

Oh, well. Lestrade's seen much stranger.


	21. Unisex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wears whatever he wants in his own damn home

In all the time that John has known him, Sherlock's never been one to care much what others think about his appearance. He's watched Sherlock show up in nothing but a bedsheet to the residence of Her Majesty, the Queen. Watched him leave hospitals, unannounced, in only his gown, and go about his day in public as if it's totally normal. Watched him walk about the farmer's market down the street in only his pants and bathrobe and those ridiculous unicorn slippers that a fan of his got for him. 

 

Which is a whole other story, involving Sherlock's soft spot for kids and a little girl with a terminal illness.

 

Yes, John has seen it all...literally...he's seen. It. All. 

 

But this goes beyond the nonchalance he thought Sherlock was capable of.

 

This, being Sherlock splayed out on the sofa, shirtless, with a bag of crisps on his chest, using his his own skin as a napkin, and wearing _women's_  pyjama pants. Any other day, this may not have seemed all that strange, but, mind you, these pyjamas are silky, pink with white lace, and at least two sizes too small for the beanpole of a man, meaning his calves are halfway revealed. 

 

Oddly, John's not sure if he's ever paid much attention to his mate's calves. Maybe that's what's caught him off gaurd. Or maybe it's just that he's never seen Sherlock so...frumpy. It can't be the simple fact that Sherlock is wearing women's pyjamas. That's not shocking enough to warrant such a reaction.

 

When John dares to mention that Sherlock is, indeed, wearing women's pyjamas, and proceeds to ask where he even got them from, Sherlock only answers with his middle-fingered salute.

 

John shakes his head. He doesn't care enough to make the time to argue. 

 

Padding into the kitchen, he calls over his shoulder, "At least let me get you an actual napkin."

 

Sherlock doesn't respond but when John re-enters the parlour, the detective is glaring at him. 

 

"Stop being such a mother," Sherlock mutters and snatches the paper towel from John's outreached hand.

 

"Stop being a weirdo slob, and we'll talk about it," John retorts. "And, by the way," he adds as he leaves the room, "I never said I didn't like them on you."

 

He can practically hear Sherlock blushing.


	22. Vodka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because you know I just HAD to include a nonbinary character
> 
> (Tip: if you're not used to neo-pronouns and are not sure how to pronounce them, 'xe' is pronounced like he or she)

Xe's hesitant to give them anything more to drink. The tall man with curly hair and his short partner have had several shots each already, plus six mugs of beer between them. And, technically, part of xer job as the bartender is to cut people off when they've been served to their personal limit. Really, xe could be fired for giving them any more.

 

But xe can't help it. The two men are entirely enamoured with each other, a completely different tone to their relationship than when they first arrived here. When they got to the bar at first, they were awkward. The tall one was totally unaware of the short one's enthrallment, but clearly had feelings of his own for the shorter one. 

 

Now, with liquid courage coursing through their veins in place of blood, they're all over each other, grinding on the dance floor, teasing lips against lips, fingers brushing exposed skin. 

 

In total honesty, xe sort of likes the rush, the thrill of being a match maker, of getting people to drop their gaurd and become closer. Xe likes being the one that takes their inhibitions away, that makes it possible for people to admit their truths to each other.

 

It's not a power thing, truly. It's just the sense of satisfaction of helping people, even if it means feeding them two tonnes of vodka. 

 

Hours later, around one in the morning, as xe's cleaning glasses and surveying the thinning crowd, xe catches sight of the two men again as they're leaving, and xe smiles proudly.

 

They're hanging off each other like chimps, kissing unashamedly.


	23. Whiskers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock participated in no-shave November

It was only meant to be for a month. Really, it was. So how did Sherlock end up here, trimming just the edges of a stubbly beard?

 

Simple. But, first, we have to go back a few months.

 

It was November, just another bland month, in and of itself. Little did either of them know that this year would be special. This year, their relationship would take an unexpected turn.

 

It started when John learned of this 'No Shave November' deal, where people stop shaving - anything and/or everything - for the whole month of November, with the goal of raising awareness of cancer and the baldness that typically comes with treating it, and of donating money you'd usually spend on shaving to cancer-curing research. To charitable, kind-hearted, open-minded John, it seemed like a blast. 

 

The next day, he didn't shave. Nor did he the day after that, or the day after that, or for the rest of November. 

 

About a week into it, Sherlock commented on John's hair situation. That's what he called it, actually - a 'hair situation'. John couldn't honestly tell whether it was for lack of a better term, or just because Sherlock loves to antagonise. Either way, he asked, and John told. 

 

Initially, of course, Sherlock scoffed, and went on an unimpressed tangent about the pointlessness of it. 

 

'What use does it serve to grow hair just because cancer patients can't? Seems more like bullying to me,' he'd rambled assuredly. 

 

But soon enough, he'd quietly joined the movement. It took John less than three days to notice, but he said nothing for fear of scaring Sherlock out of the commitment. Though, later that night, he found himself aroused at the thought of Sherlock with a stubbled chin. 

 

Meanwhile, Sherlock was examining the sight in a mirror, wondering why he'd never thought to grow it out sooner. He looked quite handsome, after all. 

 

Come the end of November, Sherlock had a decision to make. It was an easy one - shave it all off, or keep the now precisely sheared whiskers that John had expressed fondness of.

 

You probably have already guessed, based on where we began, that Sherlock went with the latter. 

 

And not long after, at a Christmas party at Lestrade's place where the surprisingly sober pair were having a chat on the balcony, John finally kissed Sherlock for the first time, and Sherlock kissed back. And they didn't tell anyone, or say anything, or even feel the need to talk about it.

 

They simply beamed at each other and went on with the party. 

 

Sherlock hasn't shaved since.


	24. Xylocarp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xylocarp - a hard, woody fruit, such as a coconut

"Check this out," John smirks, a laugh stuck in his throat over the odd-looking, woody fruit that he holds up for Sherlock to see. "Found it at this new stand at the farmer's market. Indian lady with her kids, I think."

 

Sherlock scowls at the strange food, replying, "I don't trust food I wasn't introduced to before the age of ten."

 

"You're always such a prick, you know that?" John comments, setting the fruit down on the dining table with a thunk. "Try one new food. One new food and I'll leave you alone about it forever."

 

Sherlock, with a rare display of emotion, pushes his lips out in thought. Then, he lays down his newspaper and sits up in his chair and peers at John very seriously with his fingers templed. 

 

"Fine," Sherlock agrees, obviously with some contempt. "But if you break that promise, I'm never sucking your dick again."

 

"Fair enough," John shrugs, confident in his ability to refrain from badgering his boyfriend about trying new food. After all, it is only food. He never said anything about trying other new things. "Let me find the hammer."

 

Sherlock snorts at that.

 

Shortly after, Sherlock is twisting his face in disdain as he takes a bite of the juicy, yellowish interior of the fruit. 

 

Funny thing about Sherlock not trusting foods he wasn't given before the age of ten - there's much more logic behind it than John expected. 

 

Twenty minutes after trying a new food, they're in the emergency room where Sherlock is sitting up in a bed with his arms crossed and a defiant glare burning holes in John's head as they wait for the swelling in the detective's throat to go down. 

 

Turns out, Sherlock's allergic to whatever that fruit was, and John is an apologetic mess of an idiot. 

 

He can't help the blubbering he's doing at Sherlock's bedside. He feels terrible that he almost just killed his boyfriend for the sake of being right. And Sherlock, being Sherlock, is having none of it, giving John the silent treatment. It's petulant but admittedly warranted. 

 

"I did promise to never make you try another new food again," John tries. 

 

To his relief, Sherlock finally rolls his eyes and remarks, "I hate you."

 

John just smiles, knowing that it's Sherlock speak for 'You're a dumbass but I love you'.

 

He couldn't ask for anything more.


	25. Yowndrift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yowndrift - an historical term for snow being driven by wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is extra short to make up for that "Escape" one being so long...heh

John finds Sherlock in his room, sitting in a chair facing the window. Sherlock is watching the snow fall closely.

 

When asked about it, he's a bit over-excited to explain to John how interesting the science is behind how the snow sticks to the bottom of the window, but not the top. 

 

At some point during his rambling, he feels John watching him intently, and asks what's so intriguing.

 

In response, John simply smiles and shakes his head with sparkling eyes, then leaves a gentle peck on Sherlock's lips.

 

His only words, "You're so cute like this."

 

They leave Sherlock blushing. 

 

His eyes twinkle with the reflection of snowflakes. 


	26. Zygon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zygon - a connecting bar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this is the first time I've ever posted all chapters in one day....anyway, you're welcome.

Had John ever wondered if Sherlock was capable of humour? Of course. Had his assumptions been proven wrong over the years as he and Sherlock grew closer and the stony detective started laughing and smiling more? Absolutely. But did he expect to ever be pranked by such a no-nonsense man as Sherlock Holmes? Surely, the answer to that is rather obvious.

 

Especially considering he's never felt the need to be cautious of sitting down in chairs before now. 

 

Now, he's on his throbbing arse on the kitchen floor in a jumble of wooden pieces that used to be one of their dining chairs. 

 

His first thought, of course, was that it had to be some sort of freak accident. The chairs themselves are only a few years old and quite sturdy. 

 

But his second thought, when Sherlock starts snickering from the other room, is that he's been pranked. By Sherlock. A man who once said it was unrealistic for him to have to remember the order of the planets in the solar system. But somehow, he's got the capacity to slowly, over several days, unscrew the wooden axels holding the chair legs together, until finally, today, John sat down expecting nothing more than a morning cuppa, but found himself with a sore ass and a howling roommate.

 

It's a basic prank, really. But to Sherlock, someone who's obviously never had so much fun as this, it's mind-numbingly hilarious. 

 

John, for his part, is doing rather well at not making a snarky comment in retaliation - he's never seen Sherlock this happy. It warms something in his heart to see the beanstalk laughing so whole-heartedly. 

 

So, calmly, John picks himself up off the floor and playfully tosses a connecting bar at Sherlock standing in the doorway, curled over in laughter. It lightly hits his shoulder and Sherlock laughs harder.

 

And, honestly, John can't help himself. He starts laughing too.


End file.
